Once we'd held several practices at assembling the ladders and crossing gaps on them, we bound the ends with foam and masking tape to reduce the risk of making a noise, and handed them over to another team. These two guys, who appeared to be television technicians, drove to Block B and took the ladders up the fire stairs on to the roof, under the pretence of realigning the aerials.
By 4:00 everything was in hand. Omon had discovered an empty apartment on the thirteenth floor of Block C and installed a pair of snipers, armed with Dragunov 7.62mm rifles fitted with telescopic sights. Their brief was to watch for movements in the target flat with binoculars and report any change to the control room. When the assault went down, they were to engage anyone who tried to make a getaway by coming out of a window and escaping along a balcony.
At 4:30 Whinger and I got Sasha to drive us back to Balashika. Rather than handle Russian detonators and det cord of uncertain vintage, I wanted to pick up some of our own. At the base we found everything in order: the lads back from a good day in the open, and no further scares. We had time for a quick meal and a cup of tea.
As I sat down to eat I said to Whinger, "I don't think very many Mafiosi are going to come out of this alive."
By 5:15 we were back at the railway command centre for a final run-through of the plan. I made up my explosive charge for blowing the window a ring of det cord taped on to a sheet of expanded polystyrene about fifteen inches square, to which I'd fitted a short broom-handle and explained to my three how, once we reached the balcony, I'd apply the polystyrene gently and silently to the glass of the door, holding it out with the end of the handle, before I cracked off the charge.
I emphasised that, once we had launched the hit, we must go quickly through with it. If anyone saw us crossing between the buildings, for instance, it was possible that the alarm could be raised. Once we were established on the roof of Block B, we couldn't afford to hang about.
My big worry was the weather. All afternoon the wind had been getting up, and by 8:00 a gale was blowing and driving blasts of rain before it. In a way it was good, as the roar of the storm would cover any small noises we might make; but I also reckoned there'd be hellish turbulence around the edges of those tall buildings.
Everyone was nervous myself and Whinger no less than the students. As before all operations, our watches seemed to stop or at least slow down to a ridiclous crawl, the hands hardly moving.
The snipers came on the air with the occasional bit of news "Green One. Curtains being drawn in Window One.. Light switched on in Window Two' and by 8:05 all four windows had been curtained off. That suited us fine.
As we rehearsed the action sequences again and again, the only person who seemed unmoved was Anna.
It felt very strange to be dressing in Russian kit. Their flak jackets were heavier and stiffer than ours, and made us pretty clumsy. My helmet fitted my head inside but still felt very big.
Realising that it would be difficult to control my explosive charge on its panel while I was crossing on the ladder, I had Nikolai lash it flat to the small of my back, with the handle pointing up behind my head like a short antenna.
When I glanced across at Whinger I was amazed: he looked every inch a member of Omon, with his features hidden under a black rapist's mask, and only his eyes and mouth showing.
For the tenth time, it seemed, I checked all weapons and magazines.
At last it was time for the off We went out on foot into the cold, swirling wind through a gate in the railway compound wall, over the wasteland. The odd street lamp was burning in the distance, but the area we crossed was good and dark. With us we had one guy in civilian clothes, to range ahead as a scout and radio back a warning if he met anyone on the stairs. The covert com ms system was working welclass="underline" in my earpiece I could hear the Black team lining itself up in the van they'd arranged for transport, and the occasional remark from a sniper. With the finger and thumb of my right hand I settled the throat mike more comfortably in position.
In the underground car-park of Block B we waited while our scout started climbing.
"Red and Blue at foot of stairs," I reported, and immediately Anna's voice answered, "Vas pony al Khorosho."
A few moments later the scout called to tell us that all was clear as far as floor five, so both teams went scuttling up. After another pause there, we took the next eleven flights straight, and arrived at the top panting.
Out in the open, the wind was formidable. There was no point in telling people to watch themselves. They wouldn't have heard me, anyway, and anybody with the slightest sense of selfpreservation wasn't going to start pissing about in a place like that.
All Moscow, it seemed, was spread out at our feet. Immediately below us the patches of wasteland were dark, but to the south blazed an immense galaxy of lights, and the main thoroughfares were like brilliantly illuminated rivers down which flowed endless streams of headlamps.
The ladders were lying where the pseudo-TV crew had left them, and we had no trouble locking the sections together. But when we tried to raise the whole length upright, the force of the gale nearly lifted two of us off our feet. Quickly I got a second rope round the top of the ladder and secured our ends to vertical standpipes. That way, we could exert enough friction to lower the whole bridge gently into position. Once it was down, we lashed the near end to a rail, in case it got blown overboard after we were across; even though the ladder was lightweight, it wouldn't have improved the health or temper of anyone it landed on after dropping sixteen storeys.
By now I was shitting bricks.
"Wish to fuck I'd never volunteered to lead," I said in Whinger's ear.
"I'll go if you like," he said good old bugger that he is.
"No, no. I'm fine really."
I was, too once I'd started.
"Khuyevo dyelo" I said to myself.
"Shit, shit, shit!" and then I was on my way.
With a safety rope round my waist and belayed on to the guy next in line, I crawled forward, each knee on one sharp-edged rung at a time, hands clutching the side-rails with a grip like a Scotsman's on a five-pound note. The ladder swayed horribly as gusts of wind hit me. I tried not to look down, but far below and away to my left I couldn't help catching glimpses of cars that looked like toys. Half-way across I decided it was better to keep my eyes shut.
Even without seeing I could tell how far I'd got from the bend in the ladder. It flexed most when I was in the middle. Russian ladder, I kept thinking. Russian aluminium. I hope to hell it doesn't break.
At last it began to stiffen again as I drew near to the far side. I opened my eyes and saw that I had only feet to go. A few more seconds and I was safe on the roof of Block B. As I scrambled on to the rough asphalt I was appalled to find that the ladder's overlap was more like a foot than a metre. The blocks were obviously slightly farther apart than the architects had prescribed. I watched, fascinated, as I saw the end of the ladder creeping in and out, and realised that the high buildings were swaying in the wind.
Igor came across next, and made it with no fuss. So did Nikolai, who hadn't even bothered with a safety rope. It was Misha who got into trouble. Exactly what happened, I'll never know. All the rest of us saw, as we crouched shoulder-to shoulder in the gale, was that he stopped half-way across the bridge. Whinger came up in my earpiece saying, "Blue got a hold-up. Oh, for fuck's sake…" and then, "Get on, yer twit."
Obviously Whinger didn't shout. Even if he could have been heard it would probably have been counter-productive, because in that situation, if someone loses his nerve, yelling only intensifies the fright. But seconds were ticking away. From exchanges on the radio I knew that Black team were starting their final approach to the front of the building. We couldn't afford to lose time.